


Jack of Diamonds

by OneThousandBooksLater



Series: A Bookshop Moves to Tadfield [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, Costumes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gambling, Gen, Guns, Horses, Humor, Jealousy, Love, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Pining, Sex, Slow Romance, Snakes, Whiskey & Scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 18:16:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20440358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneThousandBooksLater/pseuds/OneThousandBooksLater
Summary: Our fallen angel and insouciant demon continue to explore their relationship. Continues themes from You Can Stay at My Place if You Like and Crowley Gets A New Look.I'll bet you don't see the segue coming.   I know I didn't.  But it was fun to write. Sex. Guns. Horses. Gambling. Rye Whiskey. Oscar Wilde.Characters here reappear in Chapter 3 of The Big One.https://archiveofourown.org/works/20541215/chapters/48786194





	Jack of Diamonds

_Jack of diamonds, jack of diamonds_   
_ I've known you of old_   
_ You've robbed my poor pockets_   
_ Of silver and gold_   
  
_ Beafsteak when I'm hungry_   
_ Rye whiskey when I'm dry_   
_ Greenbacks when I'm hard up_   
_ And heaven when I die_   
  
_ Rye whiskey, rye whiskey_   
_ Rye whiskey I cry_   
_ If I don't get rye whiskey_   
_ I surely will die_

[ ](https://imgur.com/GWof1Si)

The lounge in Crowley’s Mayfair flat. Aziraphale and Crowley are relaxing on the sofa, arms around each other’s shoulder. Aziraphale is wearing Crowley’s black silk jacquard dressing gown with the serpent pattern. Crowley is wearing himself. They’ve each just finished a pint of porter.

_Angel, you know how I was Beelzebul’s little concubine back in the day? _(Crowley unconsciously draws up his legs until he’s now crouching like a gargoyle on the cushion, arms around his shins, chin on knees) _I’ve been curious about something for quite a while now. Couple of millennia, in fact. So tell me, if you don’t mind, just what mischief you and Ashtoreth got up to, when all that imperial excitement was going on in The Levant._

_Ashtoreth? Astarte? The fertility goddess?_

_Well, she was swanking around as a goddess back then. But of course she’s a demon._

Aziraphale thinks a bit. 

_What did she look like? I didn’t hang around pagan temples much, but I do recollect some statues of nude women with clawed and winged creatures. Some sort of horned headdress. Bull horns? Crescent moon? And the usual strange votive souvenirs that religious humans like. I think I’d have remembered encountering a woman with wings, clawed feet, and horns. _

Crowley is incredulous. 

_You never even _saw_ Ashtoreth? You never even noticed an incredibly gorgeous female stalking you like a cat going after a mouse? _

_The only incredibly gorgeous Ashtoreth I’ve ever noticed was a nanny._

_I was definitely not gorgeous._

They laugh.

_Seriously, Aziraphale, Ashtoreth never tempted you? She was bragging all over Hell that you two had a thing going. That she’d seduced you. Her tasty little angel duckling. _

Aziraphale looks pained and incredulous. Crowley continues:

_You are honestly trying to tell me that she wasn’t running you through the ringer? You somehow managed to resist her blandishments? She made that nut St. Jerome sweat, let me tell you._

_I may . . . prevaricate from time to time, Crowley, but I can’t really lie. I had no idea Ashtoreth was personified. I certainly do not recollect meeting her. And the idea that she had somehow seduced me is simply appalling. Really, my dear!_

Crowley cannot believe Aziraphale has been such an innocent.

_Angel. If you could ignore Ashtoreth . . . 6000 years . . . you never . . . never found anyone else attractive?_

_I told you, Crowley, that intimate relations were simply not something I thought was possible for me. Humans, yes. Me, an angel, no._

Aziraphale is starting to look more and more uncomfortable and pained. 

_Nobody on your radar._

_Crowley, shut it._

_No Mary Magdalen to your Jesus? No Hephaestion to your Alexander?_

_Please, Crowley. Stop._

Aziraphale winces as if he’s trying to choke down a horse chestnut still in its spiny shell.

_You must think me such an ass. Crowley. _You _are the only person I’ve ever felt attracted to. And you are a demon. I . . . I . . ._

_What? You were ashamed? Thought Gabriel would send you a stern memo and call you back upstairs for a spanking?_

_No! I didn’t want to be the cause for Heaven smiting you or Hell tormenting you. Hell showed you no mercy, did they, when they finally discovered we’d been fraternizing. And Heaven had no forgiveness for me. They tried to kill me._

The angel’s shoulders are shaking as he struggles to not breathe. If Crowley could horsewhip himself, he would. Flings himself over Aziraphale and coils his arms around the angel in a frantic embrace. 

_I’m the ass, Angel. The complete fucking ass. Forgive me. Trample me under your feet if you’d like. I deserve it. At least you were honest with yourself for 6,000 years. _

_Crowley, we are who we are. There’s nothing to forgive._

_Yes, there _is_ something to forgive, Aziraphale. I was jealous. That’s a sin._

Crowley rubs his lips against the angel’s lambswool hair. Aziraphale is clutching the demon as someone drowning holds onto a piece of flotsam. Crowley’s hands are digging into the angel like talons. They remain locked together, motionless, for several hours. Finally they gently pull apart. Both look a bit peaky. 

_Crowley, I could use a stiff drink._

_I think I have the perfect medicine._

Crowley wobbles over to his liquor stash like someone who’s just come out of surgery. Returns with a bottle of clear liquid and two shot glasses. Magics away the bottle’s cork. Pours them each a shot.

_You have to get this down in one go_. (Demonstrates)

Aziraphale takes his glass and tosses it back in one gulp. Immediately convulses and gasps for breath.

_For Satan’s sake, Crowley, what is this stuff? I think I’ve been cauterized from the tongue down._

Crowley refills the glasses.

_Raw rye whiskey. 160 proof. Not aged. Here, have another. _

Downs his second, raises his eyebrows a bit as the liquor burns its way into his stomach. Aziraphale braces himself and downs his second shot. Shudders.

_Where on earth did you find this, Crowley?_

_American West. Leadville, Colorado. 1882._

_What?!_

_Oh, this bottle isn’t from then. Just meant that’s when I first encountered rye whiskey. This is actually less diluted than what they were serving back then. And without such interesting additives as tobacco juice and cayenne. But it feels about the same going down._

_Leadville. You weren’t with Oscar Wilde on his American tour?_

_Yep. One of the roadies._

_I wished I could have gone. But Gabriel had me off in Germany then, doing some tedious thing or another, I forget what._

_While Oscar wowed the audience with his little performance at the opera house, I wandered off and played poker all night in one of the saloons. Rotgut rye was what was available._

* * *

The house gambler taps the deck on the table but does not shuffle.

_Yer ahead a fair bit, English. Let’s see those glasses of yours._

The players lean back in their chairs. Some right arms subtly tense. Crowley removes his deep green blind man’s glasses, hands them to the dealer. The gambler quietly examines them, but the other players do not remain silent.

_Well I’ll be switched. Yew got eyes like a diamondback!_

_That there thing common in England?_

_Nope._

_War injury?_

_You could say that._

_Prolly a good thing you wear them there glasses, after all. ‘D scare the piss right outta some tenderfoot._

After inspecting Crowley’s glasses (possibly for mirrors) and seeing nothing interesting when he holds them up to his eyes for a look-through, the dealer returns them.

_Well, gentlemen, it’s close to sun-up. I’m going to turn in. There are other tables if you want to continue to play. See you tonight, Sidewinder?_

_Smile when you call me that._

_. . ._

A lanky older black miner catches up to Crowley outside.

_Stayin’ here long, son?_

_I think so. I rather like the place._

_Well then, let’s us see if we can find you some better boots and a good stetson. This ain’t that there London town. You can save the dude hat for church._

_You are . . .?_

_They call me Georgia. ‘S where I’m from. We see a fair bit o’ the Devil down in that part o’ the country._

Crowley gives him an amused grin.

_Can I tempt you into joining me for breakfast?_

_If you take care o’ the bill._

_Of course._

Georgia claps Sidewinder on the shoulder and they stroll off down the dusty street.

* * *

_Oscar loved it when I showed up in long boots and a Stetson hat that one of the card players helped me buy the next day._

_I can only imagine._

_Oh, you don’t have to do that. Here, I’ll show you. _

Crowley snaps his fingers, and he is now in his Leadville attire. Dark brown knee-high boots with a v-front and longish side tabs to help pull the things on. Striped black pants stuffed into the tops of the boots. Wide leather belt. Black shirt beneath a black waistcoat and tight cutaway jacket with small, high lapels. White collar, floppy little black silk tie. Topped off by a buff flat-brimmed “Boss of the Plains” Stetson. Accessorized with a wood-grip Colt .45 Peacemaker slung from the ammo belt on Crowley’s left side, the grip near the center of his waist, tooled Mexican leather holster aslant his thigh.

_That doesn’t look like a cowboy hat._

_It’s the real original thing. Not what you see in the movies. So’s the gun._

_Funny way to wear it. Isn’t the holster usually on the right hip?_

_‘S called a cross draw._

Crowley seems to slap his waist, and the gun is in his hand, pointed outward. 

_Don’t worry, it’s not loaded. I’m not about to fire it inside. Too much chance of ricochet. Although, maybe I could fire it into the dirt around one of the plants . . . Probably have to get a new pot . . ._

_Really, my dear. Perhaps you could just encourage the plants with a bit of fertilizer instead. What did Oscar think of the gun?_

_Oh, that came later. I was a gambler. Liquor, losers, rough saloons . . . the gun was pretty much required equipment. _(Notices Aziraphale is about to speak) _No, I never shot anybody. Having a fast draw was good enough. The aim on these things is terrible. When the bystanders dive for the floor in those cowboy movies, they weren’t making things up. Good times._

_How long were you out West?_

_Only about a year and a half. Having to ride horseback finally got to me. For once I had a tough little cow pony instead of those giant black jobs that Hell usually stuck me with. But the bastard never did get over the habit of bucking a bit when I first got on. Usually pitched me off at least once before it let me get seated. Embarrassing. Horseback is just damned hard on the buttocks. And the buckboards and stage coaches were even worse. How I longed for a decent train between towns. _(Waves the bottle) _Hit you again, Aziraphale?_

_Just let me take a drink straight from the bottle. Seems more appropriate. _

Wincing but determined, the angel takes a long hefty swig, passes the bottle back to Crowley, who does likewise. The bottle is now empty.

_Ah, Oscar. Now there was a man who could hold his liquor. I have two more bottles. You think?_

_Why the hell not. We’re angels. Won’t hurt us. ‘M not drunk enough yet._

Crowley magics his Wild West gear back into storage, snakes over to his liquor cabinet, returns with a bottle in each hand.

_Here. One for you, one for me._

Crowley seats himself close alongside Aziraphale. The two hold hands and slouch back on the sofa as they work their way toward falling-down drunk. Aziraphale finally keels over sideways, his empty bottle dropping to the floor. Crowley staggers up, hoists the angel’s legs onto the sofa, then flings himself down in the opposite direction. Flares his raven wings and folds them into a cross behind his back as a brace to prevent himself from rolling off the sofa. They both scootch and curl up a bit until they’re lolling on their sides, heads upon each other’s thigh.

Crowley slides his arm down Aziraphale’s hip. . .

_Think we should go for some Divine Ecstasy?_

Aziraphale gives Crowley a sloppy icy kiss.

_Mmmf. Might take awhile. _

But eventually they get there.

* * *

Georgia determined that Sidewinder wasn’t all that interested in buying souls, but that the lanky devil with the dark glasses and rusty mustache made an interesting partner. The boy couldn’t ride for sour apples, and regularly bit the dust whenever his pony was feeling ornery. Nor was he all that great a marksman. But he had a lightning draw, not that he had to use it much, as he was capable of generating such an unmistakable air of menace that the pair of them were seldom challenged. They both considered faro a mug’s game, and enjoyed discussing the finer points of poker. Such as how to let the house win just enough, now and again, and what their mutual tells were for milking good hands. Georgia had a fiddle, and liked to play it while riding along or by an evening campfire when they were roughing it. Sidewinder especially loved to sing _Jack of Diamonds_, as he liked the bits about wings and ducks.

_Gonna eat when I'm hungry_

_Gonna drink when I'm dry_

_Get to feelin' much better_

_Gonna sprout wings and fly_

_Gonna take down my fiddle_

_Gonna rosin up the bow_

_Gonna make myself welcome_

_Wherever I go_

_Gonna drink, gonna gamble_

_All my money is my own_

_Them that don't like me_

_Can leave me alone_

_Gonna beat on the counter_

_Gonna make the glass ring_

_More brandy, more brandy_

_More brandy to bring_

_If the river was whiskey_

_And I was a duck_

_I'd dive to the bottom_

_And never come up_

_But the river ain't whiskey_

_And I ain't no duck_

_I'll play these drunkard's hiccups_

_And trust to my luck_

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxmtrd0H8og>

* * *

Like Georgia? Meet his great-great granddaughter in The Big One:

<https://archiveofourown.org/works/20541215/chapters/48786194>


End file.
